


cross

by fyborg23



Series: check [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Ex Sex, M/M, implied open relationships, poor decision making thanks to drinking too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach presses his lips together, "Shea and you fucked each other up hard the last time you were in the same room. I know. I was there. Just."</p>
            </blockquote>





	cross

**Author's Note:**

> lostcoastlines popped up into my inbox and made me start thinking about the 2015 All-Star Game. Specifically, Shea Weber and Ryan Suter. Can be read as part of the _check_ series, but I'm fairly sure it can stand alone thanks to Characterization Marching On.

Sutes doesn’t know what in the fuck he’s doing. But then Zach had looked at him and gone,  _oh_ , when it came out that —of course — Shea was also an all-star. Sutes still remembers what Shea looked like, bending Zach over and fucking him while  _looking_  at Sutes fucking Zach’s mouth. Almost hard to believe it was almost a year ago.

Sutes will say he has had better years. So of course Zach looks at him and says, “Don’t do anything you’d regret, Sutes.”

Sutes licks his lips, “Is that a hall pass or you saying no?”

Zach presses his lips together, “Shea and you fucked each other up hard the last time you were in the same room. I know. I was there. Just.”

“Just”, Sutes presses, “if he fucks me up again you’d prefer to be there?”

Zach smiles flatly, “Something like that, hon,” the  _hon_  heavily added on and still managing to sound believable, even when he only trots that out for. Not fights. This isn’t a fight, it’s just a disagreement.

Him and Shea? Yeah, that was a  _fight_.

#

Shea doesn’t seem like he’s spoiling for a fight when Sutes sits down next to him. He’s tense, sure, but it’s the normal tense Shea gets in front of cameras and not whatever he does when he has ill advised threesomes with his ex and said ex’s… Zach. Shea even smiles, polite without anything else hidden in the show of his broad teeth. Sutes wishes he could drink during the draft. Just his luck they both went early,  _and_  got on Team Toews. He’s vibrating with nerves and Shea is…not.

Shea’s one of those people who make you hum like a tuning fork because they’re humming too. Sutes knows that Shea can easily best him in any one-on-one match, but there’s a part of him that superimposes Shea the rookie on Shea the vet and perennial Norris snub. Not that Suter ever played the experienced vet much with him—

> / Hey, Weber, tie up my skates, Sutes said, nudging him with his hand.
> 
> Weber had stared at him, his eyes looking into Sutes so intently he had to press his nails into his palms to keep himself from flinching. And Shea cracked a smile, sharp and pointed, “What do I get for my pain, Suter. A clean, dry bed?”
> 
> Sutes licked his lip, “I don’t think we got around to soaking your sheets yet. Lace me up before I make sure they remember.”
> 
> Weber smirked at the innuendo, but he wound his hands around Sutes’ laces and  _pulled_.
> 
> Sutes had to loosen them up at first intermission, the laces leaving red impressions on his skin that threatened to bruise./

Shea looks at his phone, angles it so Sutes can’t see the screen, but Sutes knows when Shea’s hiding a smile. Must be one hell of a text, and that niggles at Sutes. Fucking ridiculous, since he has Zach and Shea has…

Sutes doesn’t think Shea’s alone. Not really. That weird hum Shea has draws people, and the more you listen to it the more you find it normal.  _Who is it_ , Sutes wonders. It’s someone on the Preds. He knows Shea likes patterns, likes knowing who he’s fucking.

And whoever it is sends Shea a lot of pictures. He can’t tell what they are, but he sees a lot of skin. Naked, maybe?

Sutes’ phone vibrates, with Zach telling him to  _stop squirming_. Easy for Zach to say, he’s not sitting next to his ex and seeing glimpes of what looks like naked pictures.

Shea slings an arm behind him, pulls Sutes closer, like they’re still best buds.

“Did someone spike your ‘drink’?,” Shea asks in a undertone, his breath heavy against Sutes’ cheek, “you seem a little warm.”

Sutes looks at him, then looks at the utilitarian black phone Shea has in his hand. Raises his eyebrows.

Shea laughs, “Later,  _Ryan_ , if you’re that curious.”

> / Weber looked down at his skates, stretched out his hands. Sutes licked his lips, wondering if Weber’s still thinking about putting his fist through Lilja’s face. It was a hell of a fight, him just holding Lilja still and jabbing at his face.
> 
> Sutes suppressed a shiver right there on the bench, seeing Lilja skate off with a  _distinct_ wobble.
> 
> “You ok, Webs?” Sutes asked, and Weber looked up, his face determinedly blank.
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> Bullshit. But why call him on it? They still have a game to play./

The draft is a bit of a haze, Sutes’ll admit, but he’d rather blame having to smile and pretending that Toews actually possesses a functional sense of humor instead of a  _bad_  one, than thinking about which Predator player Shea’s fucking. Not that Sutes has any idea who Shea goes for; he seemed perfectly into fucking Zach and Sutes isn’t  _that_  similar to Zach.

No one is like Zach, but Sutes has no idea who keeps sending Shea those pictures. He’s sure he saw an ass, a  _hockey_   ass at that. Shea smirks every time, thumbs across the screen his reply, and makes sure Sutes’ cup stays full.

What a buddy Shea Weber is.

Sutes really shouldn’t stagger his way back to his room, his arm draped across Shea’s shoulders like old times, but his flesh is so weak. And pickled. Shea pushes him down to the bed, shoves him easily to the center.

“What would Parise say, seeing you this smashed,” Shea says, scooting on the edge of the mattress.

Sutes looks up at the ceiling— it kinda buckles and weaves with weird green-purple streaks in his vision— and shrugs, “He said we fuck each other up.”

Shea takes his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with the corner of the phone case, “He’s not _that_  wrong.”

Sutes closes his eyes. He’s too drunk for this conversation, probably. But Shea’s propped up against the headboard, his knee against Sutes’ thigh, a little spot of warmth. Sutes breathes in, one, two, three, and breathes out, four, five, six.

“You said you’d show me what was on your phone. I’m curious, you never really text much—”

“Used to, Sutes,” Shea says, not at all gentle. “But yeah—” he flicks his phone unlocked, taps at the screen until he find what he wants. Sutes props himself up, looks at the screen.

The top reads  _#59_ , but the rest reads— or  _shows_ — a hand barely covering a hard dick, in between thighs covered with bite marks.

“Roman’s got a dreadful sense of humor,” Shea says, and Sutes raises his eyebrow at the screen.

> / Sutes turned at the mention of his name— this was Minnesota, they knew him a lot better than they knew the rest of the Preds— and he pulled an apologetic face at Shea and the rest of the guys before he went to play  _American Hero, possibly_.
> 
> Shea’s jaw twitched, but he never has much liked being in Minnesota. Sutes turned his head away from Shea’s dark eyes and bent himself down to listen to a woman murmur in his ear, giving him a number that sounds like a hotel room.
> 
> Sutes wished he wasn’t tempted. Wished he could say no and leave it at that.
> 
> But the only reason Sutes said no was because of the  _idea_  of facing Shea, of having him talk about how he smelled or how he tasted  _different_  before pushing Sutes down to the bed and stroking his dick to painful hardness, just minutes after he came—
> 
> Sutes didn’t want to do that again./

Sutes scrolls up, sees even more pictures, Shea teasing him with not coming and it makes Sutes blush. Kid’s even easier than Zach, fuckssakes. He licks his lips, and presses the phone back into Shea’s broad palm. Shea’s always had dry hands, like sandpaper, and his fingertips catch against Shea’s skin.

“This your way of letting me know you traded in for a new model?” Sutes mutters.

Shea says, “What?”

The words stick on Sutes’ tongue, but he forces them out through his teeth, “You got an upgrade, contrats,  _Shea_.” Sutes closes his eyes again, can feel the creeping ache of a hangover pressing down on the sides of his head, “Go get me a beer.”

Shea pulls himself up easily— didn’t have as much to drink as Sutes did— and presses a cold can of Bud Lite from the mini-bar. Sutes makes a face. He hates Bud Lite, even though it tastes the fucking same as Coors. Shea probably did it on purpose, but Sutes’ not going to move anymore than he has to. Shea’s grinning at him now.

He presses the can against the side of his face, “You only smile like that when someone’s suffering, Webs. Fucker.”

Shea shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over the foot of the bed and says, “Don’t be silly, Sutes, you know I’m a happy person.”

Sutes clenches his teeth and slams back the can. He gets most of it in one glup, the rest in another.

“You always have impressive breath control,” Shea says, his hands sliding over Suter’s shirt buttons and untucking his shirt.

“Fuck you,” Sutes mutters, “But oh, wait, I’ve done that. Has your Roman?”

Shea looks up from Sutes’ mussed shirt, “Yes. I’m not as.  _Inflexible_  as you’re convinced I am.”

Sutes kicks off his shoes as he thinks  _go to hell_  very loudly in his head. Shea quirks a smile like he can read Sutes’ mind, but they did play together for years. Sutes even still looks for a 6 first, even if green is fucking different from yellow.

“Take a shower, Sutes. You’re fucking wrecked, jesus.”

Sutes opens his eyes, looks at Shea, with his shirt half-way buttoned. Zach doesn’t have hair the way Shea does, doesn’t  _loom_  like this.

He can almost forgive himself for being a dumb kid in the first place.

“Yeah, I am,” Sutes says, squirming out of his pants and shoving his shirt down to the floor. He presses his foot firmly on the nubbed carpet, straightens himself and presses towards the bathroom. He weaves a little. Nicks his shoulder on the doorjamb, and Shea’s right  _there_.

Sutes shrugs Shea’s hand off and slaps at the light switch, slaps again to turn on the fan. He lurches over the edge of the tub, and Shea holds onto Sutes’ arm tight.

Sutes blinks, and Shea grits, “Just  _stay_  there, fuck. If you slip and fall I’m sure Parise would kill me.”

“He would,” Sutes grins, pressing his back against the uniform chill of the plastic wall. Shea shoves down his pants, shucks off his briefs and  _oh_. Shea pushes his pants away from him with his foot, and Sutes watches the muscles in Shea’s legs work. Among other things.

Shea’s never had any reason to be ashamed in that department, and the thought makes Sutes huff a laugh. Shea jerks his head up, and his lips press together before he gets into the tub next to Sutes. He pulls the curtain closed hard, and presses a hand against the center of Sutes’ chest.

Sutes licks his lips. Shea rolls his eyes, and flicks on the shower spray, letting the cold water hit Sutes first—

“Aht!” Sutes cries, and Shea presses his hand against Sutes’ mouth.

“Be quiet,” Shea says, his voice dipping down in that way that  _used_  to make Sutes’ blood warm and his dick hard, because Sutes knew what that meant. Sutes’ still in his boxers, the water making them cling to him, and he shoves it down just as Shea puts his hand on the waistband.

Sutes looks up at Shea, and Shea pulls him into the stream of now-warm water, tells him to close his eyes in that same tone. Sutes does, but he’s tense, just being here— wet, naked, and still drunk— with Shea, without Zach. He bites at his lips, but all Shea does is to scrub his hair, almost nicely.

“Thanks,” Sutes says, his eyes still closed.

Shea just hums, and rinses off Sutes’ hair, “You’re fucking dumb sometimes.”

Sutes laughs, “We were fucking dumb, we were kids.”

“Whose fault is that, hm,” Shea says, turning him around. Sutes opens his eyes, and Shea’s got— a very calm expression.

“I forgot how much better it is dealing with you when you get laid on the regular,” Sutes retorts, and Shea laughs, says again,

“Whose fault is that, eh.” It’s fucking silly, being in the shower with his ex- _whatever_ , almost in the same circumstances that lead to this whole…  _thing_  in the first place, and Sutes slides his hands up Shea’s thick arms. He tilts up to kiss him, and Shea kisses back, focused and sharp.

Sutes presses further against Shea, and Shea slides his hands down Sutes’ back. Shea gropes his ass, and Sutes grinds back against him with what’s probably a dumb smile on his face.

“Too bad I can’t kiss you,” Shea mutters, like he’s got an actual beard instead of his perma-8-o’clock shadow right now, and Sutes rolls his eyes as he kisses back, smashing his lip a little too hard against Shea’s teeth.

Shea gets that  _gleam_  in his eyes, and Sutes grins as he wraps his hand around Sutes’ dick. They always had this, no matter how shit everything else was. Shea works him like he knows him, goes slowly until Sutes can’t take being quiet anymore, and then shoves his fingers into Sutes’ mouth before jerking him off so fast it almost  _hurts_ , with only water to smooth the friction.

Sutes still comes, thumping his hips awkwardly against the tile until Shea slides his thigh in between Sutes’ legs. Shea grips Sutes’ hips, looks  _at_  him, and rubs himself off against Sutes’ abs. Sutes feels dirty, having Shea’s dick rub against his skin and keeps looking down at the pink tip, touching it just to hear Shea moan quietly.

Shea always was quiet in the shower, maybe because of Juniors; he never talked about why, but it means Sutes keeps touching Shea, rubbing his fingers at the edges of Shea’s foreskin to see his hips falter against Sutes.

Sutes looks up, and Shea’s got a flush to his face he can blame on hot water, on rutting against him. He says, “How possessive is your Roman?”

Shea laughs, and keeps sliding against Sutes, and Sutes jerks him off, nice and easy, like a very old habit. Shea still buries his teeth in his own arm when he comes, and Sutes’ glad he’s almost on the wrong side of 30 for  _once_ , because that would’ve made him think about  _trying_  to get hard again, just to see it again.

They sluice water off each other, and Shea manages, “Do I have to make sure you sleep on your side so you don’t choke on your vomit?”

Sutes considers, but no, he’s not that buzzed anymore, and he hasn’t drunk  _that_  much in. Years. He shakes his head, and wraps the towel around himself, “Do you need to stay here?”

Shea rakes his eyes over Suter’s torso, grins, “No, I have a phone call to make.” Sutes watches Shea shove his legs into his pants, button himself up into something approaching respectable. Shea nods at him as he walks out the door, and Sutes closes his eyes as he slides the lock shut. He hates it when Zach is right.

Shea Weber fucks him up.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)


End file.
